


only you

by loghainmactir



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age Origins, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, done for the prompt 'have you done something for your hair?', trying to beat writer's block lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghainmactir/pseuds/loghainmactir
Summary: As Padril and Loghain's faith in the Grey Wardens begins to waver, Padril makes a grim discovery.





	only you

The sun has begun to set on the horizon of Val Royeaux, staining the sky with a smear of oranges, pinks and purples. Their cherry-wood writing desk sits in front of a grand arched window overlooking the street below, their room flooding with the warm glow of the sunset. 

And there Loghain sits. Scribbling, once again, at a piece of parchment addressed to his daughter. His hand flows from the paper to the ink-pot resting nearby seamlessly, hardly a pause in his writing.

It’s been a long year. A very, very long year. There’s much to talk about, yet only so much paper. He tries to keep it brisk.

His ear catches the sound of their front door swinging open, and he knows it’s Padril by the skittering of mabari-nails on tile. He does not move to greet him. Instead, his eyes remain glued to the letter, the constant _skrit-skrit-skrit_ of the quill quiet, but abrasive.

In Ferelden, they would’ve had little more than a single room to sleep in and keep their wares. They would've dined with the rest of their fellows in the mess hall with rarely a moment to themselves in between.

But not here. Not in _Orlais_.

Here they receive an entire _apartment_ — and as strange as that sounds, that's what it was. Make no mistake: the Warden compound in Val Royeaux was no different to Denerim’s, with separate rooms for its’ recruits and Commanders. They wanted them out of there, he was sure of it, and so they were placed in a small complex perched above a general goods store.

Padril doesn’t come to him immediately. It takes him a moment. He hears him stop in the archway to their bedroom, but the elf does not speak. Loghain does not look up.

“How is the Commander, then?” He asks, the eyes and silence heavy against his back. He finishes a sentence with a thick, black dot: his hand goes still, rolling the quill between his fingers.

From the archway comes a weighty, exhausted sigh. “Borderline tyrannical. She wants us to delve into the Deep Roads _again_ to ‘look’— but there’s nothing to look for, there’s nothing but dirt and darkspawn down there.”

Loghain finds himself frowning at the words on the parchment, trying to make sense of it. “And that Erimond fellow— he’s still hanging about her like a fly to a corpse?”

“Mh. When I arrived at the compound, I had to wait an hour for their private meeting to be over, and they’d already been at it for three as it were.” A heartbeat passes. “You think he has something to do with it?”

He jabs the end of his quill into the inkpot again. “Perhaps. This mess certainly didn’t start with his arrival, but it hardly made things any better. Besides— where there’s a Tevinter Magister, there’s usually trouble.”

Padril makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “Speaking from experience?”

Loghain abandons his quill and sits up, turns in the chair. There he is: Padril leans against the arch in a navy blue vest and a white linen shirt, his dark copper hair pulled into a half-hearted attempt at a bun. His arms are folded across his chest, and there's a dangerously charming twinkle in his eye.

If it had been anyone else, that probably would’ve stung a little.

Instead, he shakes his head and leans back in his chair, a fond smile stretching across his face. “Something like that, yes.”

Padril takes that as an opportunity to cross the room: he practically collapses into his lap. He drapes his arms over his shoulders and buries his face in his neck— Loghain hesitates, concerned about the ink on his hands where he’d spilt some earlier. It’s difficult to resist.

“Writing to Anora?” Padril’s voice comes out muffled, his breath tickling his skin.

“Of course.” Loghain replies. “I doubt it will reach her in time, but at least she’ll know.”

“You think she could help?”

“No.” He rubs gentle circles against Padril’s back, and he feels him sigh. “Even if she could, she _can’t_. The Wardens are not her business.”

He’s forgotten, but he expected no less. Padril hardly considered himself a Warden these days: he associated with them only because he was forced to. Loghain, on the other hand, adored it. For the most part.

_Who’d have thought._

“Right.” He stops short, either to contemplate or to bask in the attention Loghain is giving him. Either way is fine; he is more than happy to sit in silence with him.

Soon enough Padril presses a single, lingering kiss to the spot below his jaw. If Loghain were the blushing sort, he would’ve. Padril pulls his face away to catch his gaze.

“I don’t think we should stay any longer.” Padril says, running his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. There's a subtle scowl on his face— had they not been together for as long as they had, he never would've caught it. “I have this… feeling. Like something’s going to happen if we sit idly by. And I think you’re right— that shem can’t be trusted.”

Loghain nods. Truth be told, he’d felt uncomfortable ever since he’d met the man. Something was _off_ about him, and even Loghain couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “Leaving might not be an option, but I agree. If we could gather others who have a distaste for the situation— that might get her to see reason.”

“Maybe.” Padril squirms in his lap. He’s not sure if it’s on purpose, but it’s just enough to be distracting. He rakes his hands through his hair. His expression shifts— it's as if he's noticed something, scowl turning from worry to confusion. “If she cuts ties with him, I wouldn’t be averse to staying. It’s not all that bad he—“

He cuts himself off mid-sentence, pulls back even further to study his face. Loghain’s eyebrows rise. “You’ve done something to your hair.”

Oh. _That_.

Padril is right— he’d cut it himself this morning in a fit of… what had it been? Desperation? Frustration? He couldn’t say. It was much shorter now, and his braids were gone. It felt light. Strange. But not necessarily bad.

And so he explains with a shrug of his shoulders and pursed lips: “Ah, yes. I cut it.”

The elf’s face drops. He’s disappointed, or confused-- _hurt_ , even. He toes the line between pathetic and heartbreaking all at once. “Why?”

He sucks in a quick breath. “I… felt it was time. Why? Is it… bad?”

“No.” He’s pouting, now. Padril curls the black hair at his temples around his fingers. “It’s just… I miss the braids, is all. It was very Ferelden. Very _you_.”

What is he meant to say? That that was the point? That he was certain the Orlesians were laughing at him, pointing and mocking him behind his back? That he was tired of it, furious with it, that he couldn’t deal with the constant presence of eyes on him?

He’d heard the whispers, he was _sure_ of it. And as much as he was tired, he hated the rage that came when he _wasn’t_. It made him uncomfortable, like the weight of the Blight came to sit in his chest every time it began to simmer in his gut.

He could not suffer it. He could not act on it. So the next best thing was to cut it off at the source. Turn invisible so the whispers would _stop_.

Loghain offers a forced smile. He doesn’t realize that his hands have frozen at his back, curled against his vest. “Yes, well… maybe I’ll grow them out again one day, hm?”

Padril studies his face, hands slipping from Loghain’s hair to cup his cheeks. He says nothing as he does this: he’s searching for something, unsure. But then Loghain relaxes, lets his smile turn into something more natural, and he follows suit, holding Padril’s soft face in calloused hands.

And Padril resigns. Loghain brushes his thumb against his cheek and his body softens, shoulders slumping.

“Well, you look nice.” He says, and he dares to crack a smirk: “But I’m gonna clean it up for you. The back’s kind of choppy.”

Loghain chuckles deep in his chest despite himself. He leans forward, kisses him properly. And who can blame him? He hasn’t seen him for the larger part of the day: the trip to the compound had been long, forcing Loghain to occupy himself with strolling the streets and composing letters. There is only so much he could take.

Padril’s arms curl around his neck again. His lips are sweet and gentle, and for a moment, Loghain is certain he’s losing track of time. They may have been there for minutes, hours, but he does not care.

There is only him.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the vaguely misleading summary, lmao. After a little while without writing these two, I had to.
> 
> Seriously though: while I LOVE Loghain in Inquisition, his redesign has always super bothered me. Love the hair, personally, but the rest is like... yikes. Ok.
> 
> Anyway. Padril spends the rest of the evening sulking. It was nice to write more of these two again!


End file.
